The Crossroads
by mon-petit-pois
Summary: "She had nothing left but Eli's orders—so she followed them, knowing but not caring that she was losing herself in the process." Tali is dead and Ziva is grieving, throwing herself into a string of missions in an attempt to cope. But one assignment is not like the others, and what she finds could turn her world upside down. Preseries AU. T/Z.
1. Chapter 1

**July 2004**

It was the small things that drove her mad, in the end.

Her skull felt like it had been bashed in, her stomach so empty as to be concave. Stabbing shards of pain shot through her ribcage with each breath. Everything throbbed. Surely by now every last inch of her body was black and blue or coated in red?

And yet, that was all so easy to deal with. She had been trained for that, and trained excellently.

Rather, it was the constant _drip drip_ somewhere behind her head, like the erratic ticking of some morbid clock counting down to her last breath; the stickiness of the blood that filled her mouth and nose as if to drown her; the tiny bugs that crawled along the damp concrete floor and onto the ruined skin of her feet. It was the way her left eye had swelled shut, eyelashes glued together by the congealed blood that ran in rivulets from the wound on her forehead, the way the rough ropes binding her to the chair at her wrists, ankles and neck chafed against her raw skin, the macabre jewelry of their torture. It was the way the tears stung as they slipped down her cheeks and into open, gaping wounds, and the way her throat burned for just one tiny drop of moisture.

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

Those were the real tortures, the things the training had not prepared her for. With each passing moment they brought her closer to the brink of insanity, compounding and building off of one another until she began to wonder how close they really were to breaking her.

But this was her punishment, after all. The price to pay.

A life for a life.

It was poetic enough—almost romantic, even—that for a second she selfishly mourned that he would never know. She would die and he would continue his life, without ever knowing her sacrifice.

And perhaps that was the way it was meant to be. It was better for him this way, she knew. _He will continue his life._

She knew she was going mad, then, when she looked up to find four people standing against the musty brick wall. They shimmered in the faint light that seeped in from the hallway, the dust in the air floating undisturbed around them. They were still as statues, four pairs of accusing, disappointed eyes fixed on her.

Her mother, her sister, her father, and Tony, lined up in front of her like a firing squad.

It was a fitting end, she thought, as she laid her throbbing head back against the chair, face to the ceiling.

"I am sorry."

The words were barely audible as they fell brokenly from her sticky, blood red lips. She did not know specifically what she was apologizing for—there were so many apologies to be made to so many different people. But she did not have the energy, and the _drip, drip_ continued to count down the seconds. She could hear her heart beating irregularly in her ears, could feel the weight of their accusing stares.

_I am sorry,_ she mouthed a last time, wishing she could deliver her final message in person.

Her one good eye slid shut and she floated.

**Three months earlier**

She fidgeted on the cushion, tugging at the coarse black fabric of her dress. She hated the damn thing, but whether that was due to the itchy material or the emotions weaved into it with every use was up for debate. She kept it in the back of the closet in her room at her father's house, and it was only ever pulled out on occasions such as this.

All around her people were dabbing their red eyes, whispering phrases like _she was so young_ and _such a tragedy._ But somehow, Ziva's eyes were drier than bone as they stared emptily across the coffee table. Speculation flew around that day in whispers they thought she could not hear—perhaps all the tears that she had were cried out the nights before, when she fell asleep shaking on a soaked pillow; perhaps the reality hadn't truly sunk in yet, even though the coffin had already been lowered into the ground days ago; or perhaps she was simply heartless.

None of that mattered, though. What mattered was the aching pit in her stomach and the adrenaline that she had woken up with coursing through her veins—the nearly irrepressible need to _run, run, run_ until she couldn't feel this stabbing pain anymore. She wanted for forget—she _needed_ to leave. She needed to fight.

She needed to kill someone.

The couch beneath her shifted slightly and she looked up to find her mother's concerned and watery eyes studying her. Every time Ziva has seen her in the last few days she has been slightly surprised to see how the years have treated the woman. The years when they all lived together as a family seemed like a distant memory. It was hard for her to remember what life was like before her mother left her father, before Ari left for Edinburgh, before she herself left for the IDF. Ziva had hardly seen her mother in the three years since she had joined the army and later Mossad, and since then much had changed. Rivka's dark brown hair had streaks of gray, and her normally youthful face seemed to have more wrinkles every time Ziva saw her. With the loss of her daughter they had only become more pronounced.

The two mourning women sat in silence for a few moments. Ziva knew she was also very different from the daughter Rivka no doubt remembered. She had been baptized in fire, seen and done things her mother probably could not imagine.

There was a lot more than Talia's death between them.

It was Ziva who made the first move, pulling a manila file off of the table in front of them. She barely looked at her mother as she handed it to her.

Only a few precious seconds passed before the silence was shattered. Rivka's eyes were wide as she looked from the paper to her daughter. "Ziva, you cannot _seriously_—"

"I am leaving," Ziva interrupted, her fiery stare holding steady with her mother's disbelieving one. "Tomorrow."

Disbelief quickly morphed into anger. "How dare he?! He knows that you are hurting! You need to be here with your family and mourn your sister!"

Ziva frowned dangerously, knowing but not caring that they were making a scene in the middle of the shiva. "Do not pretend to know what I _need._ I asked for the mission! I asked for these orders, and I am leaving _tomorrow_ whether you like it or not."

"I know my daughter, Ziva," Rivka shot back, furious. "And I know that the _last_ thing you need is to be sent out on some mission where you'll be directly in the line of fire! You are _grieving!_ Why do you not let yourself grieve for her?"

"I _am_ grieving!" Ziva yelled, standing up from the couch with her fists clenched at her sides. Rivka laughed sardonically, shaking her head.

"He's made you just like him, hasn't he?"

The sudden shift in tone of the conversation threw Ziva for a loop. Bold-faced anger she could deal with, but she had little experience with soft, thinly veiled accusations.

Her eyebrows shot upwards. "Excuse me?"

"I was afraid Eli would do this. Look around, do you see him? Do you see him sitting shiva for his youngest daughter?" Rivka scoffs. "No. No, your father is at _work,_ orchestrating deaths and fiddling with his master plan."

Ziva's eyes narrow, and in her peripheral vision she notices that the other mourners have filed out. "What exactly are you accusing me of?" Rivka stands up to be at eye level with her daughter.

"The Ziva I knew, the Ziva I _raised,_ would have stayed here and sat shiva and cried with her mother. But you?" Her mother shakes her head sadly. "You are doing what he does! Throwing yourself into the _work,_ into fighting and shooting and killing! Funneling your emotions until all there is left is an empty shell that knows nothing but war and bullets and death!"

Every word seemed to add another brick to the heavy weight settling on Ziva's chest. "How dare you?" she hissed, breathing heavily. "I just lost my _sister!_"

"And I just lost my daughter!" Rivka fired back. "But I am not running off to vent my pain through the slaughter of others!"

The air in Ziva's lungs flew out with a _whoosh._ Her words began low but quickly increased in volume. "_Slaughter_? That is what you think I do?_ That_ is what you think of me?" She jabbed her finger accusingly in her mother's direction. "You do not have any _clue_ what I do, what_ I _have faced!"

"You forget who I was married to," Rivka retorted. "I can hazard a fair guess."

"I do not kill because I _enjoy it,_ Momma!" Her eyes were wide and wild, but under the layers of anger there was deep hurt. "I kill to protect my country, my _family!_ I am not _slaughtering_ innocent people like some kind of… some kind of _monster!_ The people I take out are guilty, they are _threats!_"

Over the pounding in her head she managed to make out her mother's soft words: "Is that what he has you believe?"

Ziva ground her teeth, snatching the folder out of her mother's shaking hands. "I do not have to stand here and take this. Goodbye, Momma."

And then she turned on her heels and left, the slamming of the door unable to mask the sound of her mother desperately shouting her name.

.:.

It was only a week later that she took her knife and slit a man's throat. With adrenaline pumping through her veins, the blood of the man who orchestrated her sister's death coating her hands, she had never felt more alive.

She left him limp and gargling on the bed and headed to the hotel room's sink, turning on the faucet and watching mesmerized as the crimson-colored water swirled down the drain.

_For you, Tali._

.:.

Once was not enough, as she found out very quickly. She felt an incredible reprieve from pain when she watched her sister's killer's life drain away onto her hands, and she wanted to feel that again.

Luckily for her, Hamas was a large organization with plenty of people that could be considered responsible for the attack. Her father was all too willing to search them out for her, and every new manila folder brought with it the promise of relief from the sickening ache in her chest, even if that relief was only momentary.

She was like an addict, and vengeance was her drug. More and more blood spilt, and with each droplet the words:

_For you, Tali._

But every time she stood and washed the red from her hands, she would see herself in the bathroom mirror, and every time she heard from somewhere in the back of her mind a little voice.

_I never wanted this._

.:.

With each mission the mark became less and less to do with the bomb that killed Tali. She noticed, of course, but logically there were only so many people who were really to blame. Gradually, they became less about vengeance and more about the escape. The pain was never going to go away, no matter how many throats she slit in her sister's name.

She had nothing left but Eli's orders—so she followed them, knowing but not caring that she was losing herself in the process.

_I never wanted this._

.:.

She lost count of how many missions there had been by the time she boarded the plane to America. Her calendar told her it had been over two months since the funeral, so what did that make this one? The tenth? Eleventh?

The engines rumbled to life and she opened the profile on her lap, reading the name at the top.

_Anthony DiNozzo, Jr._

* * *

_A/N: I need to stop beginning stories when I already have tons of others in progress. I also need to stop beginning stories when I have a ridiculous amount of homework to do…but c'est ma vie. That's French for something._

_Lots of credit goes to Kiera (Tapes and records) for helping me brainstorm this up. Also to Nicole (mcgeekle) for being such a wonderful person to bounce ideas off of. I appreciate it a lot. This little monster of a fic was born out of me beginning to watch Supernatural and it's probably more influenced by that show than by NCIS (with the exception of the characters and of course the fact that this is 100% paranormal free) so if you watch it then you will understand the true meaning of the title._

_The next chapters will be longer. Hope you enjoyed! Please let me know what you think._

_-Allison_


	2. Chapter 2

Ziva heaved a sigh and tossed the binoculars onto the passenger seat, rubbing at her tired eyes. She had been at this for hours but since he got home from work, her mark had yet to leave his house. From what she had read in the dossier that sat on her lap, she had gathered that he was not the type to spend his nights home alone watching movies, but she had been tailing him for two days now and he had yet to go anywhere but work, the gym, the grocery store, and the coffee shop. This was the part of the missions she detested. It involved a disproportionate amount of waiting around, and she had never been very good at biding time. The action was what she lived for, what she craved.

When midnight rolled around she gave up, pulling the cap off a pen with her teeth and writing _Wednesday night: stayed home_ on her notepad on which she had been keeping track of his schedule. In one fell movement, both the notepad and dossier joined the binoculars on the seat next to her. She started the engine.

Tomorrow would be the day, she decided, as Anthony DiNozzo's apartment was swallowed up by darkness in her rearview mirror. While she always preferred picking her marks off from clubs or bars—it was easier to lure them, especially the ones more prone to one night stands, into the usual trap in such an environment—if necessary she could settle for something else. A gym, it seemed, was her best bet this time around. She would not have the usual advantage of a tiny cocktail dress, fuck-me heels, and seductive eye makeup, but she figured she was good enough by now to throw away the crutches.

With a few well-timed winks and the occasional sway of her hips, she knew Agent DiNozzo would be putty in her hands.

* * *

His car pulled up into the gym parking lot at seven thirty, the same as the last three days. She wanted to roll her eyes at the predictability. Hadn't anyone ever taught this man to never keep a set schedule? This would be far too easy, she noted, wondering idly when her father would start considering her capable of more difficult, important jobs. For now, she lamented, she would be stuck taking care of what she could only assume were low-level targets.

She was not entirely sure of her father's logic in this particular mission, but she was certainly not one to question him. Her bloodlust ran thick and orders were just that—orders.

She waited a few minutes after she saw him enter before she got out of the car, shivering as she slammed the door. For July in Washington, DC, the evening was strangely chilly.

The gym, however, was warm, the air thick with the sickly smell of sweat. It housed a fair amount of workout machines, punching bags, and a weightlifting station. In the center of it all was a sparring ring. It was familiar, she noted. She had certainly spent her fair share of time training in places like this. Luckily for her, that meant she was not operating far from her comfort zone.

She spotted him coming out of the locker room at the far corner of the gym and settling himself in front of a punching bag. He pulled on a pair of gloves and began pummeling it with determination, an intense focus that Ziva found admirable.

She found herself a treadmill and waited for an opportunity.

That opportunity came when her mark made his way over to the sparring ring. She grinned as he ducked under the ropes and challenged the man inside. Before she knew it, her feet had carried her to the center of the gym. She watched, head cocked to the side, as Agent DiNozzo took on a man that had to have at least a hundred pounds on him. The guy had skills, she had to give him that.

She found herself almost unconsciously picking him apart, searching for his weak and strong points. It was entirely possible that she would need this information, she knew.

He was good, but she was better.

After about ten minutes the two broke up and the mark turned and headed her way. With a start, she realized it was his water bottle at her feet. Recognizing an opportunity, she seized it.

"Your right hook is good," she began, handing him the water, "but you need to put more of your body into it." She slipped quickly and easily into this skin, the seductive smile painting her face with little effort. The gaze she fixed him with was one that she found usually drew men in. From the grin on his face and the way he raised his eyebrow back at her, she guessed that this was no exception.

"Is that so?" he responded, taking the bottle and not moving his eyes from hers as he drank.

She cocked her head to the side. "Would you like me to show you how it should be done?" Her voice dripped with measured, teasing seduction and she laid her accent on thick. She really was pulling out all the stops here. Four days was a long time for a single mission.

His eyes darkened, and he played along. She could feel the air between them thickening. "Are you asking to spar with me, Miss…?"

She smirked. "Ziva. And yes, it appears I am."

"I wouldn't want to hurt you," he responded. Her eyes sparkle mischievously.

"It appears we have a chauvinist on our hands, hmm?" She drew out the last syllable before ducking under the ropes between them. When she stood up they were inches away. She looked up at him and patted his cheek lightly, standing on her tiptoes and breathing in his ear, "It is not my wellbeing you should be concerned for."

When she pulled away, he was dazed. For a moment she allowed herself to revel in the power she possessed, that with a few words and a sultry stare she already had him in her grasp. She could feel her heart beating, pumping red blood saturated with adrenaline to her fingers, toes, flushed cheeks. She wondered idly what it said about her that she got such a rush from using her body to bend others to her will.

It probably said more that she got a greater rush from killing, but never mind that. She pushed away such musings easily—if she thought too much about it, it all fell apart. Hawk-like focus was necessary, _always_ necessary, on missions such as this. There was no room for such pointless thoughts in a life dominated by orders, blood, and orders again.

What mattered here was his breath hot on her forehead and the sweat beading in droplets at the back of her neck. The world around her narrowed to only him, his hungry green eyes looking at her with an intensity far better suited for the bedroom than a public gym. Their bodies are inches away and she can physically _feel_ something in the space between pulling them together.

"Fight or get a room!" the man that Agent DiNozzo had just finished sparring with called from the sideline. The words jolted her to reality and she shook her head. She had allowed herself to get much too carried away far too soon.

"She started it," her mark accused, taking a few steps back and flexing his hand. "Now, _Ziva_…" he stretched out the vowels with a twinkle in his eye, "…I believe you challenged me?"

"I did," she nodded, pulling on a set of gloves, "but do not worry, I will go easy on you."

In a silent communication they commenced their dance at the same time, circling each other slowly, predatorily. It appeared almost feline in nature as they moved in tandem, each waiting for the other to strike first.

And go easy on him, she did. After all, she knew men, understood what made them tick. She could not beat him too badly—after a certain point, being beaten by women stopped presenting a mysterious, alluring challenge and became simply a turnoff. Emasculating her mark, as much as she might want to, would serve no utilitarian purpose in the completion of her mission.

It was he who struck first and she had to bite back an amused smile. Silently, she added the word _impatient_ to the growing mental list she kept of his characteristics—she was always thorough when it came to knowing her enemy. He came at her with an easily anticipated right hook, the very one she had been critiquing. She sidestepped it with little issue and came back in a single motion with a blow to his side that was little more than a love-tap. His eyes darkened. He'd learned his lesson—he waited for her to make the first move this time.

She feigned to the right and instead swung at him with her left. Reflexively, his forearm came up to block the blow. He caught her next fist and went to reciprocate the strike, but in the time it took him to blink she had deflected his arm, pinned it behind his back, and used her leverage to push his shoulders downward and bring her leg up to knee him in the gut. He let out an _oofh _and remained doubled over even as she took a step back.

"Ready to give up yet?" she teased, a sultry smirk painting her face.

"Not quite," he ground out, shooting up to land a quick uppercut on the underside of her jaw. She managed to block the blow but it threw her off balance—she had underestimated him, it appeared. It dislodged her center of gravity just enough that when he used his leg to sweep her legs out from under her, she landed with a _thud_ on the mat. It was not long before she had jumped back to her feet and soon they were circling each other once again.

He came at her from the left side this time and she caught his fist easily, twisting his arm in a way that caused him visible discomfort. In a move that was reminiscent of what he had just pulled on her, she used her position to unbalance him, and with a slight tap to the sensitive tendon in the back of the knee, his legs buckled. She twisted his arm behind his back, effectively pinning him face down on the mat. Straddling him, she leaned down with a broad, smug smile on her face and whispered from behind him:

"Time for you to yell _grandpa,_ yes?" Between her legs she could feel him panting. Even with the layers of clothing between them, his skin was hot against hers.

"It's _uncle_," he forced out, breathless. "And you can get off me now."

"It is rare that a man asks that of me," she mused, tapping his arm teasingly and standing.

"She got you good, man," her mark's former sparring partner piped up from the sidelines.

DiNozzo raised his hands in surrender as he pulled himself back to his feet. "Hey, she _is_ good. I'll give her that." He tugged the gloves off and headed over to his water bottle, taking a long sip before looking back at Ziva who was standing on the opposite side of the ring, arms folded loosely across her chest. "Where'd you learn to fight like that, anyhow?"

She cocked her head to the side, pushing a wild strand of hair behind her ear. "My father taught me."

"Some father you've got," he retorted with a raised eyebrow. The corner of her mouth pulled up in a somewhat sardonic smile.

"Tell me about it," she scoffed.

"So, what's your aim here, Ziva?" he inquired, bending over to shove a towel back into his duffel bag. She feels something strange stir in her stomach at the way he _insists_ on saying her name; drawing out the vowels, lingering on the last syllable as if its pronunciation is something to be relished… She swallows and forces herself to keep her mind on the task at hand—complete and utter seduction.

"My aim?"

"Yeah. I mean did you just wake up this morning in the mood to make some poor bastard look like a complete idiot?"

She shrugged, sauntering slowly over to him. "Something like that. Bad day, needed some stress relief, I suppose." Once again, she soon found herself inches away from him in an obvious encroachment on personal space. She smirked and ran her index finger down the center of his chest. "And I would not say you looked like a _complete_ idiot…" She looked up from his chest and their eyes met. She could feel the slight shudder that ran through him from the electricity of it all.

And then she pulled away—after all, she knew how to leave him wanting more.

However she could tell that, although she had him hooked, he would not be inviting her to his bed tonight. Perhaps he was more of a respectable man than she had originally judged him to be, but she knew she would be better off leaving him to dwell on this. She would let his desire and curiosity fester overnight, setting up the stage for tomorrow when she could complete the final stage of the mission.

And then she could move on to the next mission, next city, next mark… After all, as long as she kept moving she stood a chance in outrunning her grief, her regret, and the debilitating pain of loss.

Move, move, move. Run, run, run.

Kill, kill, kill.

Again that little voice in the back of her head popped up: _it is not only your marks that you are killing, Ziva. _

She shook the words away and returned to the present. "I appreciate the stress relief, but I must get going now…" she trailed off and cocked her head to the side. "I do not think I ever got your name."

He extended his hand to shake. It was almost comical—a moment ago she had been straddled atop him and _now_ they exchanged formal, measured pleasantries. "Anthony DiNozzo," he introduced himself as she shook his hand. "But you can call me Tony."

She raised an eyebrow. "Well,_ Tony,_ it has been… what is it you say? It has been real, yes?"

"Yeah," he responded with a grin. She simply nodded and turned, ducking under the ropes and heading toward the door.

"Wait, Ziva?" he called. She halted in her tracks but did not turn around. "Will I see you again?"

Her mouth tugs upward into a smile as she called back to him over her shoulder. "Tomorrow, same time."

With her hips swaying she sauntered out of the door, feeling his red hot gaze on her back the whole way.

* * *

Returning to the apartment Mossad had rented for her, she found herself completely exhausted. She showered and got ready for bed on autopilot. Usually she had a small crash after adrenaline rushes like the one she experienced today, but this was no small crash. One of this proportion was typical after she had come down from the high of finishing the mission, not merely from the baiting stage. There was something different here; she could feel it in her weary bones.

She collapsed onto the bed and for a few moments stared with sleepy eyes at the dark ceiling. Her head, cradled comfortably in a downy pillow, was swimming with thoughts that she tried her very best to shove back where they came from. Most complied easily, so used to being pushed away that they put up little resistance anymore. But there was one, something new, that lingered, unwilling to flee no matter how hard she tried to drive it away.

As she drifted to sleep, Tony DiNozzo's sultry smile still swam stubbornly behind her eyelids.

* * *

_A/N: I really should apologize for how long it took me to get around to updating this. I'm really hoping it doesn't take so long next time!_

_My eternal thanks to **Kiera, EowynGoldberry, amaia, bunnykoko, Tatiana, prince-bishop, Roxy, Chrissy1991,** and a **guest** for the wonderful, supportive reviews! They are what keep me going. That, and the fact that **Kiera** and **Nicole** are willing to let me ramble and help me figure out just what I'm doing with this and other fics._

_Please let me know what you thought of this!_

_Allison_


	3. Chapter 3

His head swiveled around the second he heard the door open, a grin painting his face when he saw it was her.

"I wasn't sure if you were coming," he said as they made their way toward each other.

"I got caught up in traffic," she excused, and then gave him a knowing smile. "Do not worry, Anthony, I keep my promises."

"You can just call me Tony." He bent down to pull on the red sparring gloves, tossing a pair to her. She caught them deftly, without taking her eyes from his.

"Are you sure you want to do this again, _Tony?_" She teasingly dragged his name out, rolling it around her tongue as he had with hers yesterday. His eyes darkened in response and she made a mental note to do that more often.

"Do what?" he asked, ducking under the ropes and into the ring. She followed close behind him.

"Get your ass kicked."

He barked a laugh, bristling his shoulders. "How do you know I wasn't taking it easy on you yesterday, sweetcheeks?"

She cocked an eyebrow dangerously, taking a step forward to bring her once again into his personal space. It had been twenty-four hours since they were in this position but oh, did it feel like they'd never left…

"First: I do not appreciate being called that, and second: how is it that you know it was not _me_ that was taking it easy on _you_?" She smirked and tapped his cheek teasingly before taking a few steps backward.

"Oh you were, now, were you?" he retorted incredulously.

"I would not want to have bruised your fragile manly ego."

"I think it's already been bruised enough, actually," he joked. "You know, you said you were gonna show me how to throw a better right hook, but you never did."

"You are right, I did not," she frowned. "Well then, remind me what I am working with here." She held her gloved hands in front of her face and nodded to him.

She did not even flinch when he took a breath and swung at her, colliding his knuckles with her palm.

"I see the problem here," she clucked, tugging off her right glove and circling around behind him. "You are too tense." He stiffened when she wrapped her hand around his right bicep, squeezing gently. "You need to relax, you are thinking too much. Take a deep breath."

"It would help if you were not…." he paused as her exhale tickled the back of his neck, "all up against me like this."

"Are you having trouble controlling yourself? Would you like me to stop, Tony?" A slight, involuntary shudder ran through him at her words.

"God, no."

"Then _relax._ You cannot be so stiff. This is all about momentum, not raw strength. Be loose, and when you strike put your _whole_ body into it, got it?" She tapped the side of his neck gently and pulled back, circling back around to face him. "Try again."

The irony did not escape her that she was training a man that if all went as planned she would be killing tonight. The thought made her stomach twist in a way she refused to acknowledge. She shoved the thoughts away, narrowing her focus to the task at hand.

He was improving, she noted as he took his second swing of the night. With a few more words of advice (that went along oh so conveniently with teasing, lingering touches) his form improved as well.

"Good," she praised.

"Can you teach me how to do that thing you did last night?"

Her brow furrowed. "What thing?"

"You know, the move with the arm and the back of my leg…"

She smirked. "Oh, yes. _That_ thing…"

Her mark was a very quick learner, she discovered. He could pick up most things through observation alone. On more than one occasion that night he succeeded in dropping her to the floor, something that he relished in enough to amuse her. As he slammed her to her back for the third time that night, however, Ziva decided she'd had enough. In one swift movement, she kicked his legs out from under him and brought him crashing to the ground next to her, their legs intertwined.

Grinning, she rolled on top of him, straddling his waist and pinning his arms to his sides.

"Very funny," he panted. "I'm having déjà-vu."

"You did not object too much to this last night," she reminded him, letting her eyes wander slowly from his face, down his neck, his toned chest…

"No, I didn't," he admitted, and her gaze traces its way back up his body, entangling itself in his disheveled, sandy hair. "But I'm not really in the habit of saying no when beautiful, exotic women want to pin me down."

Again his words threw her stomach into twists. _Beautiful_. She had been called that more times than she could count, but somehow this felt different. She swallowed past it.

"Even when those women have just kicked your ass?"

He gave a throaty chuckle. "_Especially_ then." For a moment there was heated silence, then, "Would you want to get a cup of coffee sometime, Ziva?"

And _that,_ of all things, was what threw her for a loop. Straddling the waist of one Agent "Sex Machine" DiNozzo, their bodies slick with perspiration and lust, the last thing she would expect him to do is ask her out for coffee. She had done this many times, but this was a new one.

She recovered quickly. "I would have thought you would shoot for something more… immediate… than a coffee date."

"Meaning you're wondering why I didn't offer to take you home and ravish you all night long?" There was a playful glint in his eyes.

She shrugged, considering it for a minute. "That is one way of putting it."

"Ziva, if I'd asked like that you would have punched me in the gut. I'd rather not piss you off when you're on top of me, thanks."

She smiled mischievously, placing a hand on his chest. "Then maybe you ought to ask nicely, hmm?"

"Oh yeah, because there's a _polite_ way to ask that?" He rolled his eyes, then after a moment of thinking he frowned. "Are you disappointed?"

"That you did not offer to _ravish_ me?" she asked, cocking her eyebrow incredulously.

He grinned broadly. "You sound pretty disappointed to me."

Truth be told, she _was_ disappointed. Her orders explicitly stated that she was to kill him in his own home, and this took her a step farther from realizing her goal. Coffee meant the prolonging of a mission that had taken far too long already. Coffee meant he was looking for something with her that was more than simply the one-night-stands her assassinations were built off of.

Coffee meant getting to know this man before she slits his throat, and she may be hardened and professional but she is _not_ soulless. This could put her entire mission in jeopardy.

But what choice did she have?

"I am not disappointed," she lied, "just surprised." With that she slid off of him and helped him to his feet.

"Well, I have to work tomorrow," he explained. "My boss wants me in early."

"On a Saturday?"

He heaved a sigh, heading over to his bag to grab his towel and water bottle. "Yeah, it kinda sucks."

"Well, then," she began as he took a sip of water, "maybe I can meet you for _coffee_ during your lunch break? Cheer you up a bit?"

The mark grinned broadly in response. "That'd be great." He bent down and pulled his cell phone from the bag. "Put your number in and I'll let you know when it looks like I'll be off."

She pulled open his contacts and punched in the number of the cell phone that was part of her cover, saving it under _Ziva._ She flipped it shut and handed it back to him with a smile that was not so hard to fake.

"I will see you tomorrow then, Tony."

He smiled broadly in response. "I look forward to it."

* * *

It was drizzling slightly as she pulled up to the local coffee shop. A quick glance at her phone as she stepped outside assured her that she was indeed in the right place. Through the glass storefront she could see her mark standing in line at the counter, fingers tapping lightly against his pant leg.

From the side she almost didn't recognize him. His business suit made him look like an entirely different person than the gym shorts and muscle shirt she had previously seen him in, and she had to admit that while it was not as form-fitting, it was in no way less attractive.

She pushed open the door, inhaling deeply as the rich scent of freshly-brewed coffee hit her in waves—she still appreciated it, even if she was more of a tea person. He did not turn around as a little bell tinkled overhead; instead he stepped up to order his drink. She snuck up stealthily behind him.

"I'll have a medium dark roast, three creams, three sugars please," he told the barista, pulling his credit card from his wallet.

"I never pegged you for the _three sugars_ type, To-ny," she teased from behind him, letting each syllable of his name curl slowly off her tongue. He jumped.

"_Jesus,_ Ziva!" he cursed as she moved up next to him. "Freaking ninja."

She smirked, waving him off and turning to the barista. "Do you sell tea?"

"Yes ma'am."

She bristled at the address and ordered a cup of jasmine tea before turning back to Tony. "I am sorry, I did not mean to frighten you," she said as she patted his chest, her lips curled up into a mocking pout. He just grimaced and handed the barista his credit card.

"Why don't you go save us a table before you give me another heart attack, okay?"

She chuckled lowly and navigated her way to a round table for two against the glass storefront. Pulling out a chair, she sat down and stared out the window at the busy lunch-hour DC street that was distorted slightly by the hundreds of tiny raindrops that slid down the pane. Crossing her legs she fidgeted in the wooden chair, suddenly strangely conscious of her appearance. She'd packed very little, only the practical clothes she had been wearing to the gym and one tiny cocktail dress. It had been black, low cut, and had slits up the side that revealed much more skin than was appropriate anywhere outside a heated nightclub.

The plain, casual navy dress she wore now was something she'd had to go out and buy yesterday for just this occasion. She had felt incredibly awkward doing so, and the entire time she perused the racks she'd had the mantra _it's for the mission, it's for the mission_ playing on repeat in her head.

She took a deep breath and ran her hand through her wild, loose curls as he made his way over.

"Jasmine tea for the lady," he narrated, setting the porcelain cup down in front of her and sliding into the empty chair. He took a sip of his coffee.

"Thank you." For once she settled on a polite remark instead of a witty comeback. She took a sip of the hot liquid. It burned her throat but tasted like comfort. She'd needed this to calm her nerves, she realized. The fact that she even _had_ nerves was extremely unsettling.

"No problem. Is the tea okay?"

"It is not the same as how my mother brews it, but it is still very good." That part was no lie and her chest tightened as the image of her mother's furious, hurt face floated before her.

"So, Ziva," he began, setting down his coffee cup, "where are you from?"

"Is my accent that obvious?"

He shrugged. "Not entirely, but like I said last night, you seem… exotic."

She quirked an eyebrow. "_Exotic?"_

"Yeah, like… Salma Hayek. Penelope Cruz. Ya know. _Exotic._"

"Well, you are getting warmer. Although I am not sure I would consider Chileexotic."

"_Ah, entonces eres de Chile_?" he asked, rolling his r's and stretching his vowels in a way that impressed even her. She chuckled.

"_Sí_, I am," she answered, rolling her eyes a little. "And you, apparently, speak Spanish."

"I remember a few things from college," he shrugged. "And when I was little we had a Venezuelan housekeeper. She gave me candy when I learned new words." A small, nostalgic smile tugged at the corners of his mouth and her eyes shifted away from the unwelcome reminder that this man was, indeed, a person with memories and loved ones and a past (and if not for her, also a future). Again came that awful feeling in her gut that even the hottest, richest sip of jasmine tea couldn't cure.

When she did not reply he continued. "You have a very unusual accent then, Ziva. I've heard a lot of South American accents but yours is… different."

Inwardly she cursed, annoyed that she stilled continued to underestimate this man. "My mother is Jewish. I grew up speaking Hebrew around the house," she explained. "And I also learned French in school. My accents are all over the place."

"Well, well, well, it seems we've got a polyglot on our hands."

She shrugged. "I like languages."

"Do you think you want to do something with languages? Like a translator or something?"

She was suddenly grateful that she had chosen to actually come up with a comprehensive cover story this time—usually it was not necessary as the marks showed little interest in anything but her body. "I am in International Studies, actually. It is why I am in DC; I have an internship here with the State Department."

He raised an eyebrow, sipping his coffee pensively. "So she's kickass _and_ smart? Oh, DiNozzo, what have you gotten yourself into?" he teased. She frowned inwardly at the notion that they were _into_ anything together.

There was a foreign heat threatening to color her cheeks red. A change in topic was in order. "What about you? What do you do?"

Boy, she realized, this man could talk. He had no shortage of anecdotes and movie references to answer her questions about him. She tried, however, to keep at arm's length from the conversation that developed. She did not need to know the details of this man's life that she would so soon be ending.

The endgame was never far from her mind. _His apartment, his bed, her knife._ It was that simple—so why was it getting more and more complicated by the minute? She wanted this over, dammit, before she got in too deep. She could feel herself sinking further with each second, every tick of the clock on the coffee shop wall making it harder and harder for her to ultimately extricate herself from this situation. The pit in her stomach that made itself known whenever she remembered the orders written in that manila folder should have alone been an indicator that this had already gone too far.

"Ziva?" his voice snapped her back to reality.

"Sorry, what?"

"I asked if you wanted to do this again sometime. Maybe something a little more… formal? There's this great Italian place in Adams Morgan."

"I would love that," she responded, snapping at the opportunity. A formal date had the potential to lead the next night exactly where she wanted to go. If she played her cards right, she could be out of DC in forty-eight hours and put this disaster of a mission behind her.

"Pick you up at seven, then?"

"That sounds great." She pasted on a forced smile, trying to ignore the resurgence of the twist in her gut. Perhaps it was something she ate? "I will text you the address."

He beamed. "Perfect. I have to get back to work now, but it was great seeing you, Ziva."

"You too," she offered. With one last smile over his shoulder, he walked out the door, the little bell ringing overhead as she watched from the window walking to his car.

And then he was gone, leaving her sitting at an empty table in a bustling coffee shop, a half-full cup of cold tea in her hands and tumultuous thoughts on her mind.

* * *

_A/N: I've been experiencing a writer's block of sorts lately… I kid you not, this short chapter took four separate sittings to write. Hopefully it turned out well anyhow!_

_Huge thanks to Kiera, Nicole, and Jessica for endlessly supporting and proofreading and just generally helping me through this as usual. Also a huge thanks to __**athenalarissa, kiera**__ again,__** prince-bishop, eowynGoldberry, VG LittleBear, , **__and __**Tatiana **__for the lovely reviews and support! I truly appreciate every single one. This story is still finding its way and you all help a ton. I'm looking for it to be around 15 chapters, but that's all subject to change at this point._

_(Also, to the guest that asked about my old stories—unfortunately, with the exception of a few shorter fics, I have no intention of completing my old unfinished stories, for various reasons. If you would like to talk about it privately just give me a penname. Thanks.)_

_Allison_


	4. Chapter 4

She fidgeted in front of the mirror, twisting and turning to get a view of the dark green dress that fell just above her knees. Its silky material was cinched by a tie at the waist and cool against her olive skin. The spaghetti straps and plunging neckline left little to the imagination but was still classier than many dresses she was used to wearing. In fact, she'd had to go back to the store for the second time in two days to get something appropriate for tonight's date. As she stared at it now, complete with heels that accentuated the gentle curve of her legs, she knew her mark would be putty in her hands.

The doorbell chimed a few minutes later, signaling his arrival. Her heartbeat picked up its pace slightly, something which unnerved her to no end. She felt like a nervous teenager. Running her fingers through her loose, wild curls one last time, she headed to the door and opened it.

And she'd seen him in a suit the morning before, but _damn_ did he look nice.

His gaze roamed over her form hungrily, taking time to appreciate every aspect of her appearance. An emerald dress reflected in emerald eyes and he smiled.

"Ziva, you look…"

She did not wait for him to finish his stunned sentence. "Thank you. You do not look bad yourself."

He extended his arm, inclining his head toward the elevator down the hall. "Shall we?"

With a nod, she threaded her arm through his and they walked, steps punctuated by the click of stiletto heels against the wooden floor.

* * *

"Wow, this place is…"

"Fancy?" he prompted as he pulled a chair out for her. "Overpriced? _Swanky?_"

Her lips quirked up in a smile as she accepted his chivalry. "Do you take all your dates to such nice restaurants, Tony?"

"Before you get too impressed, I know the owner—an Italian thing I guess. My government-salary pockets don't run _that_ deep. I mean, look at the price on some of these wines."

"It is a good thing you get a discount then, because I was going to insist on the Caymus Cabernet."

He raised an eyebrow. "Good taste in wine, too? Damn. You've got to have _something_ wrong with you."

The snort that followed was nearly involuntary. _If only he knew._

"I have been told that I snore in my sleep. Does that count?"

"Badly? Because I mean this may be a deal breaker," he joked.

"Like a drunken sailor, actually."

They were interrupted briefly when the waiter came to take their drink orders. Tony ordered a bottle of wine for them to share.

"Do you know what you're going to getting to eat?" Tony asked after the waiter had walked away. She ran her painted finger down the edge of the menu.

"I have not had a chance to look. What is good?"

"It's Italian, so everything."

She smirked. "Are you sure you are not biased?"

"Maybe a little. But half of the stuff on here is baked in cheese so you really can't go wrong."

Her eyes sparkled as his words conjured up images from long ago—her sister with her head thrown back in laughter as they dined together on a cobblestone patio. "I had the best cheese ravioli dish in Florence once," she told him distantly.

"You've been to Italy?" He looked genuinely interested.

"I went a few years ago with my family. My sister, she loves…" her stomach twisted, "_loved_ it."

A flicker of concern danced across his face. "Your sister?"

"Her name was Tali," Ziva responded with cloudy eyes. "I lost her almost three months ago."

"I'm so sorry."

And then, right then, she decided none of this made any sense.

The sympathy on his face was genuine. There was something about the downward slope of his eyebrows, the slight part in his lips, the sadness in his eyes, that assured her of this.

Anthony DiNozzo was in no way her typical mark. Those men were killers, supporters of an organization willing to use the deaths of innocents to further its cause. But this man? This man was a gentleman, a charmer, a goofball and walking encyclopedia of movie references. And even though their first meeting involved a physical altercation, there had never been violence in his touch. The desire she knew he felt was manifested not in her being pushed against a wall and having a tongue shoved down her throat but in the way his touch had lingered and eyes had darkened. He'd called her beautiful and asked her to coffee instead of his bed. He'd taken her arm and walked her to his car. No, sitting across from her was not the face of someone who deserved death.

And despite all this, she was still going to have to take her knife and slit his throat. After all, what choice did she have? Her father would not have sent her to do this if it was not justified.

Her stomach roiled. The waiter appeared again and asked for their orders and she had to do her best to pretend that she was not feeling suddenly sick. As she ordered the lasagna she had a feeling she would not be able to eat it.

She just wanted this over with.

* * *

Dinner was delicious as she had been expecting. Upon finishing, her stomach was full and her cheeks were a slight pink color from the wine.

"How long have you been in the States, Ziva?"

"Three weeks."

"You been sightseeing yet?"

"No, not yet. Why do you ask?"

He shrugged as he stood up, grabbing his lapels to fix his suit jacket. "I thought I'd give you a personal tour. Interested?" He held his hand out to her. She quirked an eyebrow at him as she took it and stood up as well.

"That sounds lovely."

"I was thinking National Mall. That's where all the monuments are," he informed her as they made their way out of the restaurant into the cool summer night air. "Are you going to get cold?"

"If I do then I will just have to have you warm me up, won't I?" she teased, shamelessly flirting with him. This needed to end tonight, or she feared she would not be able to work up the guts to end it, period.

The idea of disobeying her father's orders sent shivers down her spine. He noticed and offered her his jacket.

"I am okay," she assured him. He held the passenger door open for her once again and she slid in.

Parking was difficult around the Mall, so they ended up having to walk a little ways to get to the Lincoln Memorial. The night was warm but breezy.

"This is beautiful," she observed as they sat down on one of the memorial's steps and gazed out at the Reflecting Pool.

"Yeah," he agreed, inhaling deeply. "It really is."

When she looked over at him she found he was studying her with curiosity in his gaze.

"What?"

"Nothing. It's just interesting to see what people who aren't from here think of all of this."

She shrugged, the moonlight reflecting off her sleek dress. "Well, I may not understand the exact significance of everything here, but that does not mean I cannot appreciate it."

"I probably couldn't tell you the exact significance either, to be honest. I slept through all my history classes," he admitted. "But hey, doesn't make me a bad American. I still like baseball and apple pie, so I'm good."

She cocked her head to the side. "I have never seen a game of baseball."

His eyes brighten, and she can almost see the light bulb appearing above his head. "A friend of mine works for the Nationals. He gets me tickets all the time. There's a game in a few days, on Wednesday night, would you want to go?"

It sounded fun, fun enough that she initially forgot she wasn't planning on having him live that long. "I would love to." Then, in the next breath: "It is getting chilly out here." She slid over a few inches to press her side up against his, suddenly reminded that she was going to need to step up her game if this were to end tonight.

"Are you ready to head back, then?" he asked. Wondering where he meant by _back_¸ she answered in the affirmative.

Back turned out to be "back to her apartment," she noted with no slight bit of exasperation. It has now been a week since she first received the orders to kill this man, and it had only gone downhill from there. She felt like she was sliding downward at a breakneck pace—unless she did something soon, this was not going to end well.

He parked against the curb and got out with her, insisting on walking her back up to her apartment. Her stomach tossed and turned the entire elevator ride. Soon there was a ding and they stepped out, walking back down the hallway to her door. She inserted the key and turned back to him to say goodnight.

"I had a nice time," she told him, and it was only partially a lie. If she were any other person, tonight would have been perfect—but instead she was Ziva David, assassin extraordinaire, and tonight was ridden with emotional turmoil and undertones of dread.

"I did too," he agreed, offering her a smile. And then, before she knew it, his lips were on hers. They moved gently, slowly, and before she knew it they were gone, leaving her own tingling and wanting more.

It was strange, she decided, how stunned she was by this move. She knew it was often customary to end a date with a kiss goodnight, yet still she remained frozen.

Perhaps it was that she had never been kissed goodnight before.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Ziva," he bid before walking back down the hallway, leaving her standing alone in the threshold.

Once he disappeared into the elevator she slid her eyes shut and leaned back against the wall, taking a deep breath.

"Oh, Tali, what am I supposed to do?"

* * *

The night of the game was drastically different than their previous date. In the place of a calm and quiet restaurant was a stadium packed full of people decked out in red, white, and blue. Yellow buckets overflowed with buttery popcorn, ice cream dripped down cones and chins, and cotton candy stuck to anything and everything. The air itself tasted as if it had been deep-fried. People of all shapes and sizes mulled noisily about in all directions, leaving Tony to take Ziva's hand to ensure she was not lost in the crowd.

They found their section and were finally able to break free of the sea of people.

"This place is chaotic," Ziva observed as they took their seats just in time for the first pitch.

"I prefer spirited," Tony shrugged, popping open their bag of Cracker Jacks and extending it to her. "Want some?"

She eyed it suspiciously. "What is it, exactly?"

"Popcorn on steroids," he answered simply. "Try it." She did, and found it strangely delicious. She also found that the game of baseball itself was a bit more complicated than she'd expected it to be.

"Wait, what is he doing? The ball is not is play, why is he running?"

"He's stealing the base."

Her brow furrowed. "Stealing? Then why does the referee not call a foul?" Tony chuckled in response, taking another handful of popcorn.

"No, you're allowed to steal. And there aren't any referees in baseball, they're called umpires. Also, there's no such thing as a foul. Well, there're foul _balls_ but that's completely different…"

"Why do you Americans insist on making everything so complicated!"

"We don't make _everything_ complicated."

She quirked an eyebrow at him. "Your version of football is an absolute nightmare to understand! And you do not even use your feet!"

"What sports do you play down in Chile, then? I'm sure they aren't complicated at all," he shot back.

"I do not play any sports," she admitted. "I ran track in high school, though."

"Do you still run?"

She shrugged. "Every morning, more or less. Usually about six miles." His eyes bulged at that.

"_Six?"_

"More or less."

"Jeez, Ziva, you're a tank."

She frowned at that. "I do not know why I would be an armored vehicle, Tony. That does not make sense."

"We need to get you a book on American expressions, huh?"

"Tease all you want. I would rather speak four languages and mess up _occasionally_ than speak only one."

"_Oh, I'm Ziva," _he began in a mocking falsetto, "_and I speak four languages and can kick fully grown men's asses."_

Her eye narrowed jokingly. "Oh, shut up." Immediately, the corner of his mouth turned upwards and fixed her with mischievously glinting eyes.

"Make me." His sultry words rolled heavy off his tongue. She simply smirked in response, patting his leg gently.

"All in due time, Anthony. All in due time."

With that she turned back to the game, trying to ignore the fact that she would, sometime soon, meet this demand, but certainly not in the way he intended.

* * *

After the game they flowed out onto the sidewalk with the crowd, hands clasped together once again to stay together. He did not, however, release it once they broke free of the crowd and started walking toward the parking deck. This time she was acutely aware of his calloused, warm skin and the soft pulse she could feel beneath it.

"You know how you were saying you run every morning?" he began.

"Yes."

"Well, I do too. I mean, I try to. And I don't do anywhere near six miles. But would you want to run together sometime? This Saturday morning, maybe? I could drive to your place and we could run to mine, maybe grab breakfast or something?"

She had to admit, he was getting creative. He was not planning on taking her back to his apartment tonight, that much she could tell from his behavior. And it would have angered her if he hadn't offered up this foolproof alternative.

"I would love to."

_His apartment,_ that was the key. True, she would have to wait a few days. But she could bide her time until the weekend, when she could finally put this all behind her. Her gut roiled at the prospect.

And the light at the end of the tunnel was finally visible, but she could hardly bear to look at it.

* * *

From the window in her bedroom she watched the taillights of her mark's car disappear around the corner. For a few moments she stood transfixed, staring blankly into the darkness. Such idleness did, however, foster thoughts about a certain man that she would rather not dwell on, so she turned away and headed to the bathroom to get ready for bed.

Unfortunately she could only distract herself for so long before she had to lie down, alone with her thoughts, and attempt to sleep. Tony came back to her then, his mouth pulled into a kindhearted grin. She snarled into the quiet night and forced him away as she was so accustomed to doing.

That night, it appeared that his absence left a vacuum that her subconscious seemed all too eager to fill. Her father came then, steel eyes narrowed under greying brows.

_You have a duty, Ziva,_ he reminded her sternly, _a duty to your country, to your family. To Tali. You wouldn't happen to be considering doing anything that could jeopardize that, would you?_

_Of course not,_ she rushed to assure him.

He nodded, _Good,_ and then disappeared in a ripple of moonlight. With that she drifted, but not before one final voice, young and innocent, echoed hauntingly in her sleepy head.

_I like him, Ziva. He makes you smile._

* * *

_A/N: Hope you're enjoying it! It's moving along even faster than I'd hoped which is great, because usually I have fic ideas and they end up like All Fall Down- almost two year in progress and 165k..._

_My neverending thanks to **prince-bishop, counttoamillion, licaro, born30, athenalarissa****, Roxy, eowyngoldberry, VG littlebear, .5SOS, thebluedragonwolf, myriddin, **and two** guests** for the fantastic feedback (and Kiera, Nicole, and Jessica as always, for everything). You guys are what keep this going. Please let me know what you think!_

_Allison_


	5. Chapter 5

For the next two days, her sister lingered in the details. Cut off sandwich crusts, a golden star-shaped necklace, the little girl with the curly brown hair at the take-out restaurant—she saw Tali in all of these. And unlike usual, the blood pumping through her veins did not boil and yearn for vengeance. Instead it churned with a kind of mournful lethargy, the result of profound sadness that was sprinkled with occasional flecks of disgust. Her first instinct was to attribute this revulsion to the murder of an innocent child, but a small voice in the back of her head that sounded suspiciously like her mother insisted that it was not the spilling of her sister's blood that was the cause.

No, her disgust was far more reflexive than she was willing to admit.

Ziva had very little to do to kill time before Saturday, so her brain was often left idle. Without a set task at hand, her thoughts would drift into dangerous and uncharted waters. She would find herself thinking about her sister, her mother, her orders, her future—and not just empty musings, either. Often these thoughts would border on critical, analytical examinations of her life and her choices. To a woman whose life was built upon unquestioning execution of orders, there was nothing more risky.

But this mission, more so than any other, bred questions. There were so many of them, hiding unasked in the dark recesses of her mind that she had repeatedly shoved them to. One of these questions, small enough that, if she was distracted, it could slip through to the front of her mind, was abnormally persistent in those idle days.

And that simple, one-word question was where it all began to unravel.

* * *

She woke up early Saturday morning with a pit in her stomach. At first she thought she was hungry, but it became obvious half a sandwich later when it had only gotten worse that the cause might not be entirely physical.

The prepaid burn phone buzzed in her pocket and she took it out to find a text waiting for her.

_Jogging over now. Be there in ten._

She slipped on her running shoes and tugged her hair back into a tight, fierce pony-tail. For a moment she allowed herself to sink on the mattress as she stared blankly at the black object on her bedside table.

Her orders had been abnormally specific for this particular mission. He was to be killed in his apartment and nowhere else, and even the model of knife she was to use was specified. After he was dead, she was to take out the flash drive that had been enclosed with the orders and download its contents onto her mark's computer. Then she should wipe her fingerprints and head to one of Mossad's safe houses on the Eastern seaboard.

She had these orders memorized. With not much else to do, she had read them over and over again in the last two weeks. She knew them inside and out, forwards and backwards, but in the end it was only ink on paper. Reading it over and actually carrying out the orders were two very different things.

And when it came time to take that first step—to pick up the knife and put it in the sheath at her waist—she hesitated.

It was, of course, ridiculous. She had had that knife on her for the better part of the two weeks, expecting each time she met with her mark would be the last. However, Tony had proven difficult in more ways than one, and everything was different now that she knew for sure that this encounter would end with his blood coating her hands. When she did reach out to pick up the blade, it was heavier than she remembered.

Her father had given her her first weapon when she was nine years old. In one fell swoop, she had given up ballet and taken up knife-throwing. According to her father, dancing was fine when taken for the principles of dedication it taught. Beyond that he found the practice useless, and once he felt she had learned all she could by way of work ethic he strongly encouraged her to quit in favor of something more useful in the real world. Learning to use a knife had been at the top of the list.

Her mother had been entirely against it, of course. Until Rivka got pregnant, she herself had been a ballerina, and Ziva suspected she saw her eldest daughter following in her footsteps. But Rivka was not naïve—she knew that Eli had very different plans. A month after Eli gave Ziva her first knife, Rivka took her daughters and left. The separation, however, did not last long; the world was not kind to a single mother, and she had trouble supporting herself and her two little girls. After a few months she returned, reluctant and resentful, to Eli.

The training started again, and this time did not stop until Ziva joined the IDF. The young girl had always been complacent with this, eager to please her stern but God-like father. She spent her teenager years with a knife in her hand, or if not in her hand than in a sheath at her ankle or waist. All of those years, all of that training, had made it so that the ultimate sense of security came from clutching a metal blade between her fingers. It always made her feel powerful, safe, and calm.

But now as she weighed it in her palm, it brought nothing but turmoil.

Eager to rid herself of the feeling, she quickly attached the sheath to her waist and slid the flash drive into her pocket next to the phone. As she did so, the doorbell rang. She stood, clenching and unclenching her fists before making her way to the front door of her small apartment.

"Hey," he greeted, smiling broadly. His face shimmered with a thin sheen of sweat and his hear was tousled from running.

"Did you have a nice run over?"

He shrugged. "Lonely. Ready to go?"

Both luckily and unluckily, once they began running neither felt the need to talk. Unfortunately, while it freed her from having to have a conversation with a man she was only an hour away from killing, it also left her alone with her thoughts once again.

She tried to focus her energy on the wind in her hair and on her face, the pavement beneath her feet, and her even breathing as they jogged side by side down the picturesque DC sidewalk. Every now and then she would become hyperaware of him next to her, of the panting breaths he took that, little did he know, were numbered. But for the most part it worked—running had always been her escape method of choice.

She could not run forever, though, and before she knew it they had completed their loop and slowed to a stop in front of his apartment building. Suddenly her heart was in her throat, making it hard to even out her labored breathing. His panting, luckily, matched and masked hers.

"God, I'm out of shape," he mumbled as he typed in the passcode. The front door opened. "Mind if we take the elevator?"

"Not at all," she agreed, but her voice was somewhat distant. Most men she had encountered would not admit to such a thing. They would hold their breath until they were blue in the face or until their lungs collapsed—anything to not show weakness. She tried not to imagine what it said about their quasi-relationship that he was willing to admit that.

The knife felt cold and heavy against her right hip.

As the elevator doors opened, a thought struck her. She had waited almost two weeks for this opportunity. She had gone on three, now four, dates in expectation of this moment here, when he brought her into his apartment. Why? Because the orders said she should kill him in his apartment.

But in reality, she had no real need to wait this long. She could have showed up at his door yesterday, a week ago, or even before they met, and forced her way into his apartment, killing him on the spot. Her father's words from years ago echoed back to her.

_You knock on their door, and when they answer, you shoot them. It is that simple._

She knew his address, and certainly after they met he would have let her in before his brain could process that she really _shouldn't_. She could have struck at any time, but instead she waited. She waited weeks.

And now she had what she'd been waiting for.

They entered through the living room, her right hand twitching just above the sheath. It was a nice place, she noticed. It was clean, almost pristine—she made a conscious effort not to touch anything—and certainly not what she had been expecting from a bachelor in his twenties. The sleek, black baby grand piano that sat in the middle of the room was perhaps the most surprising. She quirked an eyebrow.

"I did not know you played piano."

He shrugged. "My mom forced me to get lessons when I was little. I hated it, but mostly 'cause my teacher was mean. Do you play?"

She shook her head absently, a distant look in her eyes. "Not for a long time." _Not since Tali died._

"Well when I got the piano last year I really meant to start taking lessons again. Maybe you could teach me?"

"I was not very good."

"Neither was I. We can teach each other."

She really regretted bringing this up. All this conversation had done was intensified the ache in her chest. Hearing him talk about his future—_their_ future, even—made her heart hurt and the blade at her waist burn red-hot.

This man had plans for a future, and for some unfathomable reason he wanted her to be a part of it—_h__er,_ the woman who was about to extinguish any future he may have had.

"Do you have a bathroom?" she blurted almost without thinking.

"Yeah, it's through the bedroom doors," he directed, pointing to her right. She nodded, not trusting her voice, and moved on numb legs toward the door. Discreetly, she used her shirt to turn the doorknob and shut the door behind her.

The woman that stared back at her in the mirror was barely more than a girl. With her squared shoulders and her wild hair pulled back into a fierce ponytail, she gave the illusion of confidence—but look closer and all that was visible was fear and doubt. Her brown eyes were murky and unsure, and the longer she looked, the wider they got. Her mouth was set into a thin, straight line as the golden pennant at her chest glinted almost mockingly.

_You must do this, Ziva,_ her father told her, and she could hear it so realistically that, had she not been standing in front of a mirror, she would have believed he had appeared behind her.

She gulped and looked away from the terrified girl in the glass. Careful not to leave fingerprints, she flushed the toilet and ran the sink. She avoided her reflection on the way out.

Her fingers, shaking this time, twitched again to the blade as she stepping into his bedroom.

"Tony?" she called out, resolving to make him come to her. She did not want to go back into his living room, to see his movie collection and his picture frames and that beautiful grand piano that served to represent everything she was about to rob them both of. She did not want to be reminded how base an action she was going to commit.

As he came through the doorway and approached her, her father's voice once again sounded.

_Orders are orders. You must follow them. _

Her fingers were at the hilt of her knife then, as she stared up into his questioning eyes.

"You okay?"

_Follow your orders. Kill this man!_ _Do it!_

And her father was yelling and her heart was pounding and her hands were shaking—and then, on top of it all, Tony DiNozzo was looking at her with such concern that she thought she might throw up.

_Do it! Kill him!_

And suddenly, that one question that she shoved away for so long forced itself to the forefront of her mind. Her hand fell limp at her side and suddenly that question was all there was.

"Why?"

She did not intend to speak it out loud, but it was just as well. Once she spoke it the question was there, hanging in the air, irrevocable.

_Why?_ Why kill this man? What was his crime? What could this caring, charming man possibly have done that warranted his name on a hit list aside Hamas terrorists? She did not have the answer to any of these questions; in fact, she could not even hazard a guess.

"You looked like something was wrong, that's all," he responded. "I'm about to make pancakes, wanna help?"

She nodded absently, barely noticing that she began following him. She was wrapped up entirely in her thoughts. There were so many red flags that she had ignored in the past two weeks, but now it was as if all of a sudden she could see them all. As she turned the corner into the kitchen, a glimmer of light bounced off the piano and into the shape of her mother.

_I am proud of you._

Her heart continued to pound and all around her was red—just not in the way her father intended. No, there would be no blood shed today. The decision was made as soon as she voiced her doubt.

And though at the time she did not know it, it was not just Tony whose fate was sealed that day.

* * *

She spent breakfast in a disjointed haze, something that Tony was not oblivious to.

"You okay? You've been acting kinda distant all morning," he observed.

"I am fine," she assured him emptily, and the look of skepticism he shot her was proof of how unconvincing she sounded. He made such remarks multiple times before giving up. She nodded and appeared to be listening to the increasingly one-sided conversation, but her brain was elsewhere.

He drove her home about an hour later, and much of the ride was spent in heavy silence. As they pulled up in front of her building, he made one last effort.

"You know, tomorrow is the Fourth."

She frowned. "The Fourth what?"

"The Fourth of July. Seriously, you work at the State Department and haven't heard about it?"

"Oh, yes, the Fourth," she responded, pretending to know exactly what he was talking about. "What about it?"

"Well, if you're up for it, they set fireworks off from the Reflecting Pool around nine. We could go and watch them, if you want. There's a ton of people there usually, though. So if you wanted to do something less crowded…. Well, I don't mean to invite myself over, but your apartment balcony would have a really great view."

Her brain was working on overload. It was all she could do to nod. "That sounds… nice."

"I could bring dinner over around eight. Pizza or chinese?"

"It does not matter to me."

"I'll pick something," he answered. "I'll see you then, okay?"

"See you then." Her words were still distant as she got out of the car. She barely remembered the hike up the stairs to her apartment, but as soon as she entered the apartment everything seemed to crash.

She shut the door behind her and leaned back against it, slowly sliding down until she sat with her arms wrapped around her knees. Her eyes burned and chest ached. Her apartment was spacious and bright and yet she had never felt more trapped in her life. Suddenly she felt like a child again, yearning for her mother's embrace that, despite their many differences, never failed to bring her comfort.

But instead, all she got was a cold wooden door against her back and an impossible situation that she could not help but think she had brought on herself.

* * *

_A/N: I'm really happy with how this story is moving along! I'm enjoying writing it. A few notes I've been meaning to make: first, the story is set in Summer of 2004, and I realized a couple weeks ago that there is a flaw in this. Ziva helped Ari with his infiltration of NCIS in Bete Noir, which technically would have already happened. So for the record- in this universe that did not happen. I may move the story to 2003 to avoid possible confusion, if needed. _

_Thanks so much to **Eowyngoldberry, mishka, Roxy, prince-bishop, licaro, athenalarissa, babyvfan, Com2meZT, .5sos, Tatiana, j09tiva, Libby, VG littlebear,** and a **guest** for the fantastic reviews! I really appreciate them- they keep me going. Also billion thanks, as usual, to** Nicole, Kiera, **and **Jessica** for helping me with this story. Please let me know what you think!**  
**_

_Allison_


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